The New Dentists

Jen Macapagal

Sa mga ganitong pagkakataon na wala akong magawa kundi ang umupo lang at manigarilyo ay madalas na sumagi sa isip ko si Ross. Dahan-dahang papasok sa lutang  kong isipan ang mga alaala niyang matagal nang nakaimbak sa bodega ng mga kalungkutan at kasawian ko sa linsyak na buhay na ito. Hanggang sa makatulugan ko ang naghihimagsik kong sikmura at tangang yosi. Ross? Ni hindi nga iyon ang tunay niyang pangalan. Ano ba ang malay ko kung ano ang pangalan ng lalaking iyon na minsan ko lang nakita at ni wala pang isang oras kong nakasama. Ni hindi nga kami nakapagsalita ng “hi”, “hello”, o “nice shirt” sa isa’t-isa. At kung anu-ano pang ni. Baka naman nahihibang lang ako at wala naman talagang nangyaring ganoon? Na hindi naman talaga ako nagpunta sa Terry’s sa Visayas Avenue noong October 24, 2008, araw ng Biyernes? Pero duda akong hindi ‘yon nangyari. Wala siyang pangalan pero sariwang-sariwa sa isip ko ang nararamdaman ko sa mga oras na iyon na nakatitig lang ako sa kaniya at inaaral na mabuti ang maamo niyang mukha. Agad ay nasabi ko sa sarili ko na itong taong ito ang gusto kong makasama sa habambuhay. Na kahit na si GMA na naman ulit ang pangulo ng bansa ay ayos lang basta’t katabi ko siya at kahawak ng kamay. Hay, Diyos ko.

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Gabriel Angelo Sanchez

Balot na balot ng kaba ang pusa habang naghihintay ito sa tapat ng bahay ng kanyang mahal na si Cheng. Hindi mapalagay ang pusa habang paulit-ulit nitong naririnig ang bawat pintig ng kanyang puso dahil sa pinaghalong pananabik at takot sa kanyang gagawin. Hindi mapakali ang pusa, palakad lakad, patalon-talon, paikot-ikot sa harap ng bahay ni Cheng.

“Bakit kaya wala pa si Cheng? Dapat nandito na siya ng ganitong oras ah,” sabi ng pusa sa kanyang sarili.

Lumipas pa ang ilang minuto at naaninag na ng pusa ang anino ng isang babaeng nakauniporme mula sa kanto na naglalakad patungo sa direksyon nya. Walang duda, dumating na nga ang pagkakataong hinihintay niya—dumating na si Cheng.

Habang unti-unting lumalapit si Cheng sa kinatatayuan niya, unti-unti ring bumabalik sa pusa ang mga ala-ala ng kanilang unang pagtatagpo ni Cheng…

Isa lamang siyang normal na pusang kalye, at gaya ng lahat ng pusang kalye, wala siyang pangalan. Patakbo-takbo lang, nagaabang ng basurang makukuhanan ng makakain, walang permanenteng tirahan. Sabi sa kanya ng mga kaibigan nyang pusang kalye NPA daw ang tawag ng mga tao sa mga walang matirhan katulad nila—no permanent address. Hindi naman talaga ito naintindihan ng pusa pero nakitawa na lamang ito sa biro ng kaibigan niyang pusa. Umiikot ang araw ng pusa sa paghahanap ng makakain, maswerte kung may matiyempohang daga pero sa lugar tulad ng Maynila. Bihira ang daga na naglalakad sa kahabaan ng Dapitan.

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Erika Lianne Garcia

It was difficult to button up the black suit, and view the mirror from up here. The first task of zipping up the yellow skin felt like resealing a zip lock or banana, but applying orange makeup on me without being able to see was easy compared to painstakingly inserting each button to each corresponding hole. Between my hooves, the shiny ebony felt like pieces of glass perfectly formed into tiny ponds from the rain. I picked up my two antennas shaped like lollipops with long handles and screwed them in on top of my head. Carefully taking in lobs of greasy wax and applying it on the tips of each antenna, spreading over my scalp so it would easily blend. I washed off the extra grease, and swung back the mirror to see the full view.

The appointment wouldn’t be until four o clock in the morning, although it was still 10.45 pm a lot of things were on my mind, and commuting would probably be a cumbersome task due to the other preoccupations jumbling in my brain. The collection of thoughts filing past in my head weren’t arranged in a convenient manner, and I felt like a frustrated adult not being able to return the 3D puzzle pieces of squares, circles and triangles back inside the ball, and dried beans being rattled, much too many, inside a tiny box that sound was muffled, and everything you had expected to hear and happen does not. While I lay back on the long sofa, of course to accommodate my neck, taking great care not to crease my suit, I starred at the clock directly placed at my foot, and watched the quiet sweeping of the second hand turn into more seconds and more minutes. I was expecting a call, or a doorbell, or a sound (the microwave) which would say that my dinner was ready, I didn’t know which would come first, either way, the hand still continued to spin, still returning to the same point, while the others moved on. I think I must have dozed off, a monotonous beep could be heard over the microwaves bell, and so I picked up the phone first.

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Jon Carlos Rodriguez

You didn’t want to go, but I forced you anyway.  “That place smells like Ting’s spirit,” you complained.  Ting was the name of my Labrador.  He died last year.  “The clothes there stink to high heavens,” you added.  I never told you then, but it probably stank because the owners were indeed in high heavens.  As in they’re dead.  The clothes were probably donated but due to the bloodcurdling temptation of making profit, they now serve the purpose of sold merchandise by opportunistic entrepreneurs in makeshift shopping centers.  Money is just like love after all, and people will do anything to make them these days.  I aimlessly walked down Session Road, vaguely remembering a wagwagan somewhere in this area.  I remembered that it was a three-storey high building and, yes, I admit, three times the stench.  You dragged your feet but managed to paste a smile on your face, struggling to mask the strife.  But I was privy to your shopping preferences.  “Why go to a thrift shop when SM is right there?” you asked.  Still, you went with me inside the humid, asthma-inducing shithole of secondhand goods.  That’s what you call love, I thought.

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Carlos Malvar

Part I

“Bee, you can’t be serious,” my girlfriend says. She does that cute exasperated look that I like. I grin. “I can’t read this. This is crap. Crap that only your school can produce.”

I’m used to her jabs. “Just read it ok,” I take a sharp turn by the Mini-Stop on the corner. “There’s a killer epiphany in the end. Very Tony Perez. Modesty aside, it’s almost a Krip.” Two more blocks and I’ll have my girlfriend safely home. I see the derelict, beaten gates of Teachers Village residences and I die a little inside. Why does poverty have to exist?

“I don’t have to read your crap, because I already know how’s it going to end.”

“What’s up with you?” I ask. I check the date on my iPod. “It’s too early for you to be menstruating.”

“Oh, god. Not that card.”

“Hehehe.” I really laugh like that. He-he-he.

“You write crap, ok?” Then, she adds: “It’s not your fault, really. You come from a tradition of a paradigm so impractical it’s bound to implode on itself soon.”

I hit the brakes so suddenly the Business Ad books I have sitting on the backseat slides noisily on the floor. “Why do you have to go ad hominem on my ass?”

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Courtney C. Chua

in memory of the late former president Corazon Aquino,

for the country that she fought for and believed in.

5 o’clock is a dead hour.

LRT-2 is almost empty and you swiftly sit yourself down beside another student who looks ready to fall asleep anytime now. You can’t blame her because the orange of the sky as the sun sets doesn’t really help get rid of the dust that the Sandman had sprinkled on your eyelids during first period. You put on your earphones and watch Sta. Mesa pass by you while Lady Gaga’s ‘p-p-p-poker face’ blasts in your ears.

Recto is five stations away and the top of the buildings in front of you are hardly entertaining, but the cross atop Mt. Carmel makes you raise your hand to your forehead. After that, you look behind your shoulder where you can see the horizon and all the galvanized iron roofs that go before it.

Even as the train leaves V. Mapa behind, the LRT is still spacious and quiet. You yawn then watch sleepily as Legarda shows you barefoot children running around playing patintero and luksong tinik.

The distance between Legarda and Recto is long, but you patiently watch all the little people below and the buildings go one by one.

Recto.

The Philippine heat whips across your face as you step off the train and away from the

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Courtney C. Chua

It only takes a few seconds for the scene to register in your mind, but the pain that you feel as your heart breaks slowly and excruciatingly remains behind your eyelids forever. Your feet move automatically to get to your destination, to the stairs beyond the man sitting in the middle of the overpass.

It is Saturday and almost Christmas. You had to suffer through crowds and lines of people since you went out of the house at around eight in the morning, and it’s no different now. It is seven P.M. and the overpass is full of people walking with you, walking past you, going up the stairs, going down the stairs, and no one stops.

You see three young ladies in their saleslady outfits, either ready to start their shift or glad to end it. They laugh with lipstick and cover their mouths with their hands and red nail polish and you watch as they simply pass by the man that sits hunched on a mat on the floor.

You’re getting closer now, and you squint your eyes because the man is hugging something and you don’t know what. You think it looks like a watermelon because it’s big and round but watermelons aren’t gray. There are over a thousand possible things you think about that the man may be holding because men don’t just sit on the floor of overpasses hugging watermelons.

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Laurence Roxas

The car wouldn’t start. I tried turning the key again as my foot pumped the gas pedal encouragingly.  “Come on. You can do it.”  Miraculously the engine springs to life. Crisis averted. I back out of my parking slot and drive up the ramp. The security guard at the exit smiles at me as I roll down my window. “G’evening, Harold. How are the kids?”

“Good evening, Mr. Wilkes. Oh they’re wonderful, sir. They love that new laptop you sent over.” He takes off his cap and runs his hands through his thinning hair. “Going home, sir? You’re earlier than usual.”

“Yes well I have to. The wife will kill me if I’m late to my own daughter’s birthday.” I ruefully shake my head as he politely laughs.

“Better not take the highway then, sir. I hear they’ve been bumper to bumper for hours.”

“It’s fine. I know a shortcut.” I roll up my window and give him a nod of goodbye as I exit the parking complex. I drive around the huge grey building and onto the main road of my company’s compound.

Skyscrapers fill my windshield’s view. The giant structures of glass and steel tower over me as I drive between them. Each in competition to be the most impressive, the most intimidating edifice. Even after thirty years it still takes my breath away. T.W. Enterprises has been the leading electronics and technology firm practically from its first day. It’s worth more than several third world countries’ GDP combined. Every piece of hardware you use from your phone to your microwave, we’ve had a hand in creating or improving. Your wireless chargers? We invented those. Your computer’s holographic display? Us too. Those new clean cars that don’t spew pollution at all? You’re welcome, Mother Nature. T.W. Enterprises is the company of tomorrow and I was its visionary leader.

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Nadine Ramos

Makati is beautiful when it rains. The rain has a way of pelting down on the fluctuating yellow street lights, and masking the ugly facades of the Makati skyline. It makes everything so surreal, so blurred and intangible. 

Steven taps the cigarette on the ashtray as the humid air of June envelopes him. 

He misses home, if anything.  

He watches as flashes of lightning illuminate various parts of the Business District. The low grumble of thunder is like an earthquake suspended in mid-air.  

Below him a sea of umbrellas and brake lights are at a standstill on the street. The street vendors cover their goods with dirty plastic bags, and the pedestrians who don’t have umbrellas seek refuge on the steps of closing buildings. 

There is a cacophony of differently-pitched car horns, rainfall, and music coming from the karaoke bars. In the neighboring apartment, he can hear the married couple fighting again, in their native tongue. They’re shouting things he can’t quite understand, not just because of the heavy downpour. 

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